The last five years have sailed by far too fast. In 2019, I began writing what I called “my novel” and have amassed an enormous pile of notes and papers and assembled “test” books filled, at last count, with approximately 100,000+ words. Stepping back, I realized that the book’s ending was written long ago, it’s beginning recently, and everything in between—well, in between.

Recently, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that I had lost all objectivity while writing my novel. It became a convenient vehicle for avoiding unpleasant occasions, events, or social interactions, as “I simply don’t have the time I need to finish my book.” Realizing that this behavior had to end, I attempted to assemble this paperwork mess only to find that, basically, I had created the equivalent of three separate puzzles and then mixed all the pieces together. My writing style and storyline have changed so much in the last five years that not only did the pieces not mesh well, but they also appeared to be written by three different people.

It was time for a pause, and into a large box this monstrosity went. Here, it will be left to stew, churning away in the recesses of my mind while I await that “A-Ha!” moment, probably at three o’clock in the morning on some random night.

In the meantime, as I await the arrival of divine inspiration, the muses, or a kick in the pants, I am thankfully free to be here again.